


In His Spring

by bauer



Series: Delta [4]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Alpha, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Internalized Biphobia, M/M, a copious amount of sex, alcohol causes and solves so many problems, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:56:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauer/pseuds/bauer
Summary: This town might be big enough for the two of us.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, the end of Dylan's arc! It, uh, came out kind of tropey. Oops. This takes place next season, and assumes everyone is where I want them to be. It should mostly stand on its own, but obviously some parts make more sense after reading previous installments. 
> 
> As far as warnings, there are a few moments of less than 100% certain consent, but it never dips below, like, 90%. In case the tags weren't clear, this fic treats same dynamic attraction as a parallel to IRL same gender attraction, and Dylan is far from the most enlightened person on Earth. If you're still reading, yay, have fun, yell at me about typos or extra tags, etc.
> 
> Musical accompaniment/title nod- "In the Springtime of his Voodoo" by Tori Amos.

Dylan moves out of the hotel in early December. He’d spent the first two months of the season paranoid, ready to be sent down to Tucson, until Tippet pulls him aside one day and tells him to get comfortable. There are some grumblings in the front office about roommates, or living with a vet, but when Dylan protests they give in without too much of a fuss—a territorial young alpha, nothing newsworthy about that. They compromise, a single bedroom apartment in the same complex as most of the other young guys.

“And there are, _like,_ so many ASU girls around. They all go wicked hard,” Clayton assures Dylan when he stops by Dylan's new place. He brought a bag of chips, but at the current rate, Dylan doesn’t think they were meant as a housewarming gift.

“My neighbors are all alphas,” Dylan says, which is a distinction that needs to be made sometimes with betas.

“So? Don’t a bunch of Phis live in this building? _Be nice to them._ They’re hot. And generally have a lot of alcohol. We fucked up not getting drafted by a Canadian team.” He shoves an entire tortilla chip into his mouth sorrowfully. Some guac gets caught on his lip.

Dylan says, “You got a little… yeah. I mean, they seem cool so far.” One of them, Taylor, had stopped by earlier to introduce herself, and, yeah, her sorority sister roommates. The conversation was light but had a light undertone of _don’t be as obnoxious as the last guy who lived here._ She didn’t come in, which he was grateful for, but seeing her sitting cool in her shorts and tank top as he died in lugging his three boxes was a special kind of torment. Arizona, clearly, cared less about it being _winter_ than Dylan did.

Clayton nods enthusiastically. “You should invite them over to Duke’s later! Duke has alcohol.”

“Thank god for that,” Dylan says flatly.

He doesn’t plan to actually follow through, but Clayton apparently reports back to the beta horde that he’s _totally_ bringing his hot neighbors around later, so he does. Taylor comes with her own group, with enough omegas to even out the ratio. It’s a lot like any other party Dylan’s gone to, basically.

Dylan’s a cup or two deep in the promised alcohol, chatting up the ASU kids, when Taylor elbows hard in the ribs and hisses, “Who’s _that?”_

Looking towards the door, he says, “Who, Lawson?” then corrects himself to, “Oh, yeah, no, Jakob. Don’t bother, he has a pretty serious long distance thing with his guy.”

Like he heard his name, Lawson’s head whips around before making his way towards them, roommate trailing behind.

Being near Lawson is like being hit in the face, every time. He’s a real blood, sweat, and tears kind of the guy, the kind of scent omegas flocked to. Dylan has known Lawson for years now and it still gets to him, especially when he does shit like slide right up next to Dylan and take the cup out of his hand. “What are you drinking?” Lawson asks, not waiting for an answer before sampling it himself. It’s almost a shocking contrast against Jakob, who drifts in a vague hint of something floral. They make sense as roommates, in a way that almost makes Dylan wonder how Brown deals with it. It’d drive him crazy.

“Get your own,” Dylan complains, stealing his cup back.

“Had to see if they bothered to get anything worth drinking first,” Lawson responds. His eyes are shining in a way that makes Dylan want to twitch, but he covers it by taking a gulp, actively not doing anything as junior high as wondering where Lawson’s mouth had been.

It’s warm in Duke’s apartment, even with the AC, and Dylan can feel himself getting warm. He can tell when Lawson notices, too, because his eyes drift away from Dylan’s. Fingers accidentally glance off Dylan’s neck as Lawson reaches up and thumbs at the edge of Dylan’s hood. Dylan doesn’t breathe as Lawson says, “You really need to give up on all your hoodies and sweatpants. Embrace the change in climate.” Then Lawson yanks one string down, which was probably his goal all along.

“They’re comfortable,” Dylan argues, trying to pull his hood back in shape.

“Not in this heat, they aren’t,” Lawson says, before turning to save Jakob from another round of _no, really, I’m so happy with my current relationship status._

 

☀☀☀

 

This season is different.

Looking back, getting sent down made a lot of sense. Dylan hates to admit it. As much as he wanted to stay with the team, between everything that was happening with Mitch and the weaknesses in his game sharpening to full blown faults, he’d been tense, anxious, miserable. It hurt his play, and the team. There was really only one possible outcome.

Being in Erie was good for him, gave him a place to lay low, lick his wounds, and improve. The boys were great. Having the C made Dylan feel even more responsible to good by them. He tightened in some places, loosened in others, and came into the Coyotes’ camp praying it would be enough. So far, things have been working out. Everyone on the team has been great, even Dvorak.

Still, even before Dylan moved into the same complex, he probably spends the most time in Lawson and Jakob’s apartment. A side effect of mooching rides off of them, sure, and it’s hard to be jealous that they have a year headstart on him when they’re keeping him from making the same mistakes, but he also just really _likes_ them. Finding your guys feels even more important, more final, now that Dylan’s made it to the NHL, like it’s the final linchpin holding everything in.

Dylan really doesn’t want to mess anything up with them, is what he’s saying.

 

☀☀☀

 

Taylor hosts the next time they get together; Clayton was right about it being a lucrative relationship. There are enough underage guys on the team to make going to bars more trouble than it’s worth, sometimes, and it is nice to have a few friends outside the team. The girls’ apartment doesn’t look like they spend half of their time in hotel rooms.

Dylan gets comfortable. Maybe too comfortable.

This time, him and Lawson arrive at around the same time. They socialize, but mostly stick together. They match drinks. By the end of the night, Dylan’s blood is running warm. It’s just enough to make him loose, clinging to Lawson as he turns down one of the ASU omegas.

“It was nice meeting you, but I really gotta get my buddy home, we got work in the morning,” Lawson’s apologetically, tugging Dylan towards the door. It's early still, but Dylan still lets himself get tugged, waving to everyone as he goes. The temperature is actually cool outside, which is a good excuse to curl closer under Lawson’s arm. Fuck, he smells ridiculous. Textbook perfect alpha.

“You smell so fucking good,” Dylan tells him. “You should have gone with that omega, he was cute.” He feels Lawson shrug. His hand drops from Dylan’s shoulder, sliding down to the small of his back to guide him towards his own front door.

“Didn’t feel like it. You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” Lawson says. He squeezes Dylan’s hip, but doesn’t step away. Artificial light streams in through the blinds from the parking lot, catching on Lawson’s eyes, his wet mouth. Dylan stares, long enough that he almost thinks he’s dreaming when they drift closer.

Lawson’s lips are soft. Wet. Questioning. Prying, for a just a second, before Dylan jerks back, heart thudding in his ears, and says, “I don’t—” Lawson stops and pulls away, face blank, before Dylan can even finish, but Dylan doesn’t want _that,_ he just— “Is this what you’re into? Getting other drunk and jumping their dicks the second you get back to their apartment?”

Dylan is fumbling, but he isn’t that drunk, and they both know it. Lawson’s face is hard to read but his voice sounds deeply unimpressed when he says, “Yeah, Dylan, I am just so gagging for your fat, alpha knot to fill me up, I couldn’t take it any longer.”

The ground feels unsteady beneath them. All of this could fall apart in a second, be repressed by tomorrow, never to be touched on again. There’s a throbbing moment when Lawson starts to step away and Dylan can’t stand it. He can’t even think. There’s a hand on Lawson’s (strong, round) shoulder and a voice saying, “The bedroom’s down the hall.”

For a terrifying few seconds, Lawson thinks about it. Then he nods.

Dylan leads the way back, because—he’s gotta, even though he doesn’t have a clue what to do once they’re in his bedroom. It’s messier than he’d usually let people see it but he isn’t trying to impress Lawson. It isn’t like that.

Neither of them turn on the lights. Lawson asks, “You got any lube?”

Dylan burns. “Uh, yeah.” He digs around in his end table and listens to the rustle of clothes being removed. When he turns back around, Lawson takes the bottle and leans back without a word. His knee knocks against Dylan as he spreads his legs.

The room is quiet except for their breathing, and then the wet sound of lube. Not as much as it’d be with an omega. Dylan yanks off his shirt and kicks off his pants to cover any uncertainty. He lies down next to Lawson, skin to skin. From here, it’s impossible to ignore that Lawson’s starting to get hard; Dylan more smells it than sees it, but it still sends a jolt through him. Like his heart isn’t beating hard enough already.

Impulsively, Dylan reaches for Lawson’s neck. His fingers barely brush before Lawson pinches his shoulder up and grunts, “Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Dylan argues, but he drops the hand to Lawson’s chest. He wiggles up until just his nose is up against Lawson’s neck instead, breathing him in. _Fuck,_ it’s exhilarating, makes his cock twitch, and this time Lawson doesn't protest. In fact, he twists his unoccupied hand around until he has Dylan in his hand, stroking him. Dylan groans in the back of his throat and leans even closer, kissing whatever he can reach and pinching Lawson’s nipple.

“Fuck,” Lawson hisses. “Okay, fuck.”

Dylan feels him moving, readjusting his position, and panics again. He’s fucked plenty before, but never quite like _this—_  

“So… what are you into?” Dylan asks, desperate for clear next step. Lawson turns his head towards Dylan, and the light just barely catches on his raised eyebrow. Their faces are so close Dylan goes a little cross-eyed looking at him. He kind of wants to kiss him again.

“You’re asking me what _I_ want to do?” Lawson responds.

“... Yeah?” Dylan says. It’d seemed like the right idea, since Lawson apparently isn’t as knocked off-kilter by hooking up with another alpha—Dylan will wonder about that, later—but now Dylan’s wondering if he fell into some sort of trap.

The feeling is briefly reinforced when Lawson jumps up and grabs Dylan’s legs. There’s some squabbling and thrashing, until Lawson ends up on top of Dylan, poised over his cock. Dylan barely breathes as Lawson lowers himself on him. It’s tight, so tight, and a little dry, but Dylan thinks Lawson might be into that because he doesn’t stop. Once Dylan’s cock is all the way in, Lawson just sits there for a minute, rocking in Dylan’s lap. He’s making breathy, not-quite moans, and Dylan suddenly wishes he could see his face better.

That wish only gets bigger when Lawson really starts riding him, the dim light from his window not enough to truly take in Lawson's strong, thick thighs flexing over over and over, the roll of his abs, his wide flushed shoulders. _Fuck,_ Lawson is a big guy. Dylan’s hands flutter uselessly over Lawson’s thighs, his hips. He tries to grab onto Lawson’s dick once, but it’s immediately met with a gasped, “Don’t,” so there’s nothing for Dylan to do but take what Lawson’s giving him, maybe try to thrust up occasionally, and hope his eyes adjust quicker.

It’s unbearably hot. Dylan feels like his insides are boiling, building pressure up in him. He tries to hold back, but it still feels too soon when he admits, “‘m so close.”

Lawson curses, grabs onto his own cock, and says, “Don’t do it in me.”

Dylan throws his head back against the mattress, writhing, and whines, “I’m _gonna.”_

This times Lawson takes the warning seriously, leaning forward off of Dylan. He reaches back and tugs on Dylan’s cock a few times, and then he’s coming, as promised, all over Lawson’s ass. His brain short circuits for a second, imagining it, and by the time he pulls himself together enough to be any use, Lawson is shooting off onto his stomach with a grunt.

They use a towel lying on Dylan’s floor to clean off the worst of it, before collapsing back onto the bed.

“This is the first time I’ve had another alpha over, you know,” Dylan mumbles. 

“Yeah, I could tell,” Lawson replies, knocking a shoulder against Dylan's to sooth any possible insult. Dylan hadn’t meant it like that, just meant in his apartment in general, but the other interpretation isn’t wrong, either, so Dylan doesn’t say anything else. They both lie silent, drinking in the lazy post-sex haze. The room smells like Dylan-and-Lawson-and-sex. It’s different than normal, like Dylan was always sure it had to be, but he’s not sure it’s _bad,_ either.

 

☀☀☀

 

Lawson doesn’t stay the night. He could’ve stayed fifteen minutes or an hour or three. Either way, he gets up, puts his clothes on, and says something casual like, “See you at practice.”

At this point, Dylan completely panics. He had _sex_ with an alpha. A _teammate._ He just— he was never supposed to do that. It was never supposed to go past idle curiosity, or the occasional fantasy. Now his space reeks of it, a needling reminder of his weakness in Dylan’s sinuses. He washes his sheets in a manic daze, and then goes through the entire apartment Febrezing anything that smells of anything but him.

After his cleaning frenzy, he still isn’t sure if he’s hallucinating the lingering scent in his bedroom. He spends the night on his couch.

 

☀☀☀

 

From then on, Lawson acts like nothing happened. It’s exactly what Dylan wanted, and it’s driving him insane.

At the rink, Lawson is the same fun, respectable alpha everyone expects him to be. He somehow makes Dylan avoiding him for a week seem completely normal. The team would never have a clue. Even once Dylan starts lurking around the apartment again, Lawson acts like they’re still just buddies, casual, like it doesn’t matter at all that he knows how Dylan’s dick feels inside him. The distance is _infuriating,_ especially when Dylan comes to the conclusion that he’s being held back further than he was before they—

It’s doomed, anyway. There’s a road trip coming up.

 

☀☀☀

 

In Philadelphia, Lawson stays out late, cutting it close with curfew. He’d been in their hotel room long enough earlier for the scent to stick, but it’s even more intense tonight, in this hotel bed. Makes sense; technically, Lawson had called dibs earlier. In his absence, Dylan had taken the time to confirm that, yeah, that was definitely the better bed. And _he_ wanted it.

So now he’s spent his night rolling around in the sheets, waiting for Lawson to get back so they can duke it out.

This is why they shouldn’t make alphas room together, honestly.

The wait feels like it goes on forever. Something like excitement buzzes in Dylan’s stomach as the door clicks open and Lawson walks in. He takes one look at Dylan and says, “No.”

“I’m older,” Dylan reminds him.

“And I’ve been here longer. Get out,” Lawson says, tearing at the sheets. Unfortunately for him, Dylan has two brothers, both also alphas, meaning he’s had a lot of practice making himself physically impossible to remove from his chosen spot.

Unfortunately for Dylan, Lawson still has twenty pounds and a handful of inches on him, meaning that when Lawson gets sick of wrestling, he can just lay on Dylan. Which he does. “Jesus Christ, what is your problem?” Lawson bitches, once Dylan is pinned under him, still squirming futilely for leverage. “Will you just _stop?_ ”

Then Lawson’s hand clamps hard onto the back of Dylan’s neck, and he freezes. The room feels charged, the static of two heated alphas fizzling through the air. Distantly, Dylan knows shouldn’t be letting Lawson touch him like this. His breath wheezes out from where his face is pushed into the mattress, and when Dylan doesn’t say anything, Lawson squeezes his neck again, massaging, and settles down heavier. When Lawson speaks again, his voice is deeper, annoyance replaced by something else. “We’re a little old to be pulling pigtails, Dylan.”

“Fuck you,” Dylan says, barely more than a whisper.

Lawson resettles, hands still holding Dylan down, and rocks against Dylan’s ass. Even through all the layers, Lawson’s hard cock feels hot, scorching. Dylan twitches, but he can’t get far, legs spread, making it easier for Lawson to grind into him, so close that Dylan feels naked. “Tell me I won’t. Tell me I fucking won’t,” Lawson dares.

There’s no question what he wants from Dylan. Isn’t this what Dylan has been angling for these last few weeks, anyway?

Again, there’s also no doubt that, if Dylan wanted, he could end this. Lawson would get off, Dylan could backpedal hard, slink into the other bed, and maybe even get a different, other-alpha free room, if he really pushed.

Lawson squeezes his neck again, impatient, coaxing, and Dylan tucks his chin down. Lawson sees a nod.

“Yeah?” he asks. Lawson stops moving except for the slow swipe of his thumb against Dylan’s neck.

Dylan looks upward, at the bland reinforced hotel headboard, and croaks out, “Please.” He’s not even sure who he’s talking to, what he’s asking for.

But Lawson responds, stops touching him all together, gets off the bed. Dylan squeezes his eyes shut, tries to ignore the bubbling anxiety as he registers the sound of zippers, clothes being thrown around, the pop of a cap.

Lawson doesn’t ask if he’s done _this_ before, with another alpha or omega. Dylan wonders if it’s just as obvious as the first go-around. Either way, Lawson doesn’t hesitate yanking Dylan’s shorts down, having him knee out of them, gripping his hips and tilting them upwards. Then there’s a thumb against his hole, slick and warmer than Dylan expected. He still can’t help but tense. Dylan folds his arms over his head, buries his head in them, in his own scent. This is so stupid.  He’s not supposed to be like this, shouldn’t be feeling these pins and needles, the liquid heat pouring over in his belly.

“Buddy, you gotta _relax_ ,” Lawson says, far away, rubbing at him soothingly. “You want me to eat you out? Would that help?”

Dylan’s face burns, imagining how Lawson’s mouth would feel on him. Just the pad of his thumb pressing in already feels so close, too much.

“No, don’t,” Dylan says, twisting back to look back up at Lawson. He means for it to be a demand but it feels like asking, waiting for Lawson to do something, and he can’t help but wonder if this is how the omegas he’s been with felt. The thought makes him squirm, even as his gaze falls onto Lawson’s mouth. Watches as that mouth twists into a smile, comes closer.

“You wanna kiss me, instead?” it says, just a hair too far away, so Dylan has to lean up to meet it.

It’s a demanding sort of kiss for a demanding position; Dylan on his knees, twisted around for Lawson’s kiss, holding himself open for Lawson’s tongue and teeth and fingers. Even as it locks him in place, Dylan can feel himself melting, can feel more of Lawson easing into him.

“Yeah, there you go,” Lawson says, biting at corner of Dylan’s mouth, “I’m going to keep kissing you, and you’re going to keep letting me in—” he scissors his fingers, makes Dylan shiver—“And then I’m going to put my dick in you. Because you want me to, right?” A whine escapes Dylan, but Lawson eats it up.

By the time Lawson has four fingers in him, sliding easy, Dylan’s trembling from holding still for so long. It’s a relief when Lawson backs off with a peck, and Dylan can finally collapse back into the bed. There’s a moment of peace, before Lawson pulls his hips up, doesn’t let Dylan squirm away from where he’s pressing his cock against him, and Dylan doesn’t even have time to process that much before Lawson’s in, he’s in he’sin _he’sin_ \--

Dylan folds his arms back over his head, but there’s no escaping now, from being split open on Lawson’s alpha dick--

It’s good. It’s so fucking good Dylan could cry. There’s not as much pain as he expected, but the sensation still feels so alien that Dylan doesn’t know what to do with himself. He pulls at the sheets, his own hair, and tries to breathe around the grunts Lawson keeps punching out of him, missing it whenever Lawson draws back, loving it when Lawson pushes down on him for more leverage.

Dylan groans for real when Lawson pulls out all the way, but then he’s being manhandled onto his back, leg pushed up to his side.This time Dylan's eyes are locked onto Lawson as he edges back in, taking in his broadness and splotchy pink chest and the look of concentration on his face, tongue peaking out.

Lawson can’t go as deep this way, but it still feels like more, being able to see him bent over Dylan, his hips pumping as they work against him, Dylan's own dick lying ignored against his belly.

It makes Dylan feel small, challenged, but Lawson _growls_ at the first wriggle of Dylan trying to get away. He leans in, tossing Dylan’s leg over his hips, and grabs both of Dylan’s wrists, pushing them into the mattress. “Stop fuckin’ _fighting_ me,” Lawson says, before pressing his mouth back against Dylan’s, like he could eat the resistance right out of Dylan.

It works, is the thing, the spike of rebellion squashed right back into mush in Dylan. He knows he’s lost and, right in that moment, there’s something relieving about that.

Another aspect of this position is that Dylan’s dick is finally getting some contact, up against Lawson’s abs. He’s not sure if that’s a plus or a minus yet, because, god, it feels so good he could die, but it’s also pushing him towards the ledge that much faster, and there’s a part of him that never wants this to end. Luckily, he’s not the only one getting closer, because more and more Lawson’s losing the beat, stuttering in the push-and-pull, panting in Dylan’s face. That should really be a turn-off. Instead, Dylan burns, right up to when Lawson curses, “Oh, _fuck.”_

The next second, Lawson’s backing up, pulling out, only to lean back over Dylan, hand fisted on the mattress next to Dylan’s head while the other tugs at his cock. There’s only a few seconds to spare before he’s coming, leaving stripes of white on Dylan’s stomach, his cock, again.

Dylan doesn’t have to long to realize how empty he feels before Lawson shoves two fingers back in him, pressing where it’s best. For a brief second, he gets the appeal of being knotted after before he shoves that idea away. He’s not _that_ far gone. Forgetting is made easy by the hand on his dick, Lawson’s own come easing the way, and Dylan can barely wrap his mind around that before he’s coming, too.

His stomach’s a fucking mess, and Dylan’s still trying to catch his breath when Lawson leans down and starts _licking it up._

“You’re so gross,” Dylan whispers, but he must be gross, too, because when Lawson comes back up to kiss him, he groans into it, savoring the salt between them.

When it’s all said and done and Dylan’s falling asleep in the right bed, nose tucked into Lawson’s neck and off of the wet spot, Dylan counts this as a victory. He doesn’t voice this, lest Lawson kick him out of the bed.

 

☀☀☀

 

Again, Dylan wakes up alone. This time, at least, he can hear Lawson banging around in the bathroom, can still smell him in the sheets. He buries his face in them, warding off any complex thought quite yet. There’s a particularly loud bang on the other side of the wall, and, still not determinedly not thinking, Dylan untangles himself. He bangs on the bathroom door, yells, “Crouser, lemme in!”

It takes more a few more rounds, but eventually Lawson opens the door. His face is flushed pink, down his neck, his torso…

Dylan doesn’t realize he’s stepped forward until Lawson’s hand is in the middle of his chest, pushing him back. “You need to go away,” he says, nonsensically, before closing the door right back.

Cold air blows across Dylan’s face, clearing the fog. He stands there for a second, then pulls a punch against the door and yells, “I need to shower before breakfast.”

“Fuck off, Dylan!”

After one last kick at the door, Dylan yanks on some sweats, and goes down to breakfast.

For what’s probably the first time in his life, Dylan is the first one down. He hovers as the team’s chefs set things up, trailing after them with his plate. Other people start showing up, but they ignore Dylan, opting to sit at farther tables. He can only imagine how he looks right now, how he smells. The more he airs out, the more regretful he feels, more angry.

There’s no messing with habit, though, so when Jakob arrives, he doesn’t take his sympathetic face elsewhere. “Dude, I’m sorry, I don’t know how you’re supposed to deal with that,” he says, sliding into the seat next to Dylan.

“With what?” Dylan snaps. He’s sure he reeks but he doesn’t—he can’t smell claimed or anything. They didn't last time.

Jakob looks startled, then says hesitantly, “Law’s rut? You’re like… covered in it.”

Lawson’s—

Dylan goes cold. Had he seriously let himself get turned into some rut slut, someone who bent over as soon as nature gave Lawson a nudge? God, he had been that easy for it, too. How fucking stupid, how _pathetic—_

“Oh. Is that what this is? I thought he’d shit the bed,” Dylan offers weakly, and then explains, “He’s hogging the bathroom. Couldn’t get in there before.“

“You can use our shower when we go up,” Jakob promises, pitying. He wouldn’t let himself go around smelling like Lawson’s whorehouse.

“What’s happening?” Clayton asks, sliding in on the other side of Dylan.

“Law’s in rut,” Jakob announces, because what’s the point of discretion? It’s only a matter of time before everyone sniffs it out, either literally or figuratively.

“Ha! He fucking would on a road trip. Just so you know, Stromer, I’m not going in to get your shit for you. Hashtag not your beta,” Clayton says. He laughs again, because betas always think dynamic drama is the funniest thing in the world, and asks, “What are the trainers even gonna do, call up Rent-an-Omega?”

“Nice,” Jakob says, pursing his lips.

“Oh my god, _sorry_ ,” and then Dylan tunes out of the conversation. He breathes in through his mouth and tells himself he doesn’t give a fuck how or with who Lawson passes his rut with. Acting as a stand-in last night doesn’t have to mean anything. Dylan didn't know.

 

☀☀☀

 

Except, Dylan still can’t leave it the fuck alone.

They go to practice without Lawson, as to be expected. Lawson being pre-rut last night explains some things, but cracks open another batch of wriggling questions for Dylan. Not that Lawson is probably up for playing twenty questions right now, anyway. Luckily, Dylan has never met another hockey player who isn’t down to speculate on their teammate’s personal life. Dylan sidles up to Jakob during stretches, and asks, “So, you think Konecny set him off?”

Jakob looks up and blinks. “What?”

“They were out late last night and Lawson came back acting like a dick. No way was he supposed to go into rut this week, it has to be early,” Dylan says. It’s the most likely hypothesis, he thinks.

“... He’s gay,” Jakob says slowly.

Dylan rolls his eyes. “Well, yeah, everyone knows about Travis, but if Lawson is into him…” Dylan trails off, expect him to fill in the blanks. Alpha doesn’t see the omega they want for months. Alpha immediately goes into rut to try and claim the omega. Oldest story in the book.

“No, I mean, _Lawson_ is. Both of them, I guess.”

Dylan feels it like a physical shock. He presses lower, feeling the stretch of his quad. "What? How do you—should you even be telling me that? That shit's, like, personal."

“I don’t think it’s a secret. Like, he dated a few last season and didn’t really try to hide it,” Jakob says.

“Oh.” Dylan switches legs. There’s a hint of unfamiliar, intimate soreness that Dylan can’t help but revel in. “So… does he have an alpha in Philly or something?”

Jakob shrugs, visibly exasperated. “I don’t know. I don’t really get the whole early heat thing, I’ve been on depo since I was like fourteen.”

 _“What?_ Is that even healthy?” Dylan asks, momentarily distracted.

“Oh my god,” Jakob moans, before immediately being crashed into by Clayton.

“What are we talking about?” he asks, sliding to a stop next to Dylan.

Jakob gets back up, shoves at Clayton, too lightly to mean anything, and says, "You'd know if you stopped showing up late."

“You didn’t know Lawson’s gay, right? Like, he’s not the type where you can tell,” Dylan presses. He almost feels bad, turning it around like that, testing the waters, but, well, it’s Clayton. A beta. And apparently Lawson doesn’t care.

“Really? Huh,” Clayton says. Then he shrugs. “So, what, does he have somebody here or something?”

The conversation repeats itself between Clayton and Jakob, and Dylan ignores it all, again, processing.

 

☀☀☀

 

Lawson misses that night’s game, the next match against the Pens, and then finally meets them in Columbus. His flight lands late in the night, and he stumbles into the hotel room long after Dylan turned off the lights. He makes a valiant effort to keep quiet as he puts down his shit and gets ready for bed, but Dylan is wide awake. When Lawson gets close enough, Dylan reaches out and tugs him down. The landing is a little rough, especially since Lawson seems to expect another fight at first. Still, they settle together, Dylan with his face in Lawson’s shoulder and a hand just under the hem of his shirt.

“Stop, my dick hurts,” Lawson whines, but he doesn’t do anything to throw Dylan off. In fact, he even shifts a little to make pressing up against each other easier.

“Why, did you stick it in something weird?” Dylan asks, thumbing at Lawson’s belly button.

 _“Yes,”_ Lawson says, jabbing a finger in Dylan’s ribs, then just resting his hand there. It's nice. “Don’t act like you don’t know how awful jerking off alone for three days is.”

Dylan shrugs. “Yeah, and I know much it sucks pretending you’re fine for the last day so you can get back to your team. I can still smell the rut on you.” Now that he knows, it’s easy to find the sharp edge of it in Lawson’s scent.

There’s a lull where neither of them do anything, but the expectation is there. Or, well, Dylan doesn’t know what exactly Lawson _expects,_  but Lawson does this sort of thing all the time, apparently, and Dylan did just pull him into his bed.

After a moment’s consideration—hyping himself up—Dylan dips the hand that was in Lawson’s shirt lower, under the briefs’ elastic waistband, to wrap around his cock. Lawson isn’t hard right away, but he gets there the longer Dylan works at it. It’s hot in Dylan’s palm, and so thick it feels like his fingers just barely touch. Dylan feels feverish, thinking about how he had that thing inside of him a few nights ago.

Lawson’s voice cuts through the fog, saying, “You know, a handjob isn’t that much better just because it’s coming from you.” Dylan doesn’t take it too personally, because his voice is the good kind of rough, and, seriously, chafing is no joke.

“What do you want to do, then?” Dylan asks, slowing his hand to a stop.

“Can we just—” Lawson rolls Dylan onto his back and climbs over him, straddling his waist. There’s a brief impulse to throw him off and wrestle his way back on top, but Dylan pushes it down. He wonders if that feeling will ever not be exciting, or stop altogether. Dylan hopes not. There’s something thrilling about lying back and _letting_ Lawson take what he wants from Dylan.

Right now, what Lawson wants is another kiss. Dylan has always loved kissing, had always been content to laying out on someone’s couch and making out for hours like the teenage stereotype he was, and a not-minuscule part of him is happy that translated to… whatever this is with Lawson.

Eventually, Lawson gets impatient and shoves Dylan’s shirt up, his boxers down. He keeps kissing Dylan as their dicks rub up against one another, and it’s stupid, for grinding to feel as good as it does. Once they’re both leaking, getting each other wet, Lawson gets really into it, hips rocking hard. Dylan can imagine how sensitive he must be.

Lawson finishes off first, breaking and reaching down to jerk himself quickly. He comes all over Dylan, which is apparently just a thing for them _,_ but makes up for it by grabbing onto Dylan’s dick next.

Dylan has no idea what Lawson was talking about earlier, handjobs are _totally_ better with another person. But that gets him thinking about Lawson’s experience, how he just does this sort of thing all the time, apparently, and he can’t help but blurt out, “What’s it like for you, fucking during rut?”

Lawson gives him a long look but doesn't slow the tempo of his hand. “Do you mean fucking while I’m in rut or while the other alpha is?”

Dylan whimpers. “Either.”

“It’s fucking amazing. There’s always that fight for dominance at the beginning,” Lawson breaks off to pinch Dylan’s thigh, lightly but significantly, “But coming out on top is always such a goddamn rush. It’d drive you crazy. You'd _die_ if I got my knot in you, I'm positive.” He moves his hand again, this time down between Dylan’s legs to press against his hole. There’s not enough pressure for his finger to go in _,_ but just the sensation has Dylan shaking, and he comes not long after.

Later, they’re still pressed together, and Dylan says, “You know, I’m supposed to go into rut soon. Soon-ish. In a month or two.”

Lawson doesn’t respond for a long couple of seconds, long enough that Dylan starts to worry that maybe he only does that with certain people, but then he squeezes Dylan’s side and says, “Huh. Well, I guess we should plan better for the next round.”

 

☀☀☀

 

A new routine after that. It's pretty straight forward; Lawson and Dylan fuck, a lot, whenever possible. Turns out Lawson being into this sort of thing enough to, like, actually seek it out before has a lot of benefits for Dylan, too. It's fun, and easy, and theirs to keep.

 

☀☀☀

 

The heat is creeping upwards again, and Dylan is feeling good. The team is doing well. They’re on a bit of a winning streak and doing better in the standings; nothing to brag about yet, but the mood in the locker room is high, playful. Practice in particular lends itself to pranks, mostly at the rookies’ expense. Today’s Dylan avoids them mostly by still not being the youngest in the room, and sticking close Lawson. Guy’s sneakier than his frame would suggest.

Today’s target is Clayton, because he’s just such an easy target. It takes him too long to realize that both of his shoes are for the same foot, then he stares at them for too long, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Dylan is wedged next to Lawson in his locker watching his emotional journey, and it’s stupid, how hard he has to work to keep from laughing. It’s great, to be up and playing and playing _well._ He’s just so happy—

It makes him forgets himself, for a second. He turns to muffle his laugh against Lawson’s shoulder, except Lawson hasn’t showered yet, which should be disgusting but instead just hits Dylan low. Dylan nuzzles closer for a second and brings his fingers to brush against his neck, under his ear.

Except Lawson jumps up and away, going to chirp Clayton up close. It jolts Dylan back into reality. Locker room. Other teammates. It probably wouldn’t have looked very buddies, if they were paying attention.

They don’t do shit like that in public. Dylan knows that. It still stays on his mind, straight up to when they’re sitting around in the apartment. Some preseason baseball show is on, but Dylan isn’t paying attention. He thinks Jakob probably knows somethings up between them (or maybe not, he's not the most observant), but still waits until he gets up for a drink to ask, “So you’ve never been with omegas, right?”

He feels Lawson tense next to him. “Nope. Not really planning on it, either.”

“And, like… is this all you do? In relationships?” Dylan presses, not even sure what he’s trying to get at.

Lawson takes a deep breath in, then says, dryly, “No, my relationships have not been confined to fooling around with pining straight guys.”

Dylan rolls his eyes. Honestly, it's not fair. You have one complete meltdown in front of your teammates in they never let you forget it. “God, it’s been over a year, I think I can officially say I’m over pining. Jakob, am I pining?”

“Uh, I’d say no? Especially compared to last year, no offense.” Jakob punctuates the apology by passing over a couple spare Gatorade bottles to him and Lawson before flopping back into his usual seat.

“None taken,” Dylan says, bumping his shoulder against Lawson’s, point proven. And then he stays there, because it’s comfortable.

 

☀☀☀

 

Ryan and his team come down to visit. It’s not their first game against each other, on a Wednesday, which is enough for their parents to deter their parents from showing up, too.

Dylan is still excited, practically buzzing. It shows during the team’s morning practice, much to the their annoyance. No one takes him up on lunch, so it’s just him and Ryan. Dylan picks Ryan up at the hotel in Jakob’s car, since he still hasn’t gotten around to getting his own

“Hey, little bro, keeping it casual, I see,” Ryan says, once they’re in the car (Jakob’s, more specifically; Dylan needs to hurry up and get his own already). Dylan glances down at his blue Chubbies and thin, plain t-shirt. Standard attire, at this point. He shrugs.

“Gotta keep it breezy. You want food, right? There’s a bomb Chipotle down the road,” Dylan days, pulling out of hotel parking lot.

“Chipotle? Jesus, Dyl, I thought living in Arizona would’ve given you a taste for something more authentic,” Ryan asks, cranking up every dial related to AC.

“Ah, fuck off. What, you play in Brooklyn for a year and suddenly you’re bitchy about _authenticity?_ Don’t even act like you don’t want a bowl right now. _”_

“I was leaning more towards a burrito, actually.”

God, Dylan missed him. It’s easy to let the team, the pressure, the next game distract you from everything outside of hockey, but having Ryan in front of him cracks the homesickness wide open. Ryan must feel the same way, because he’s slightly less antagonistic than normal through lunch, and then chooses to spend his pre-game nap on Dylan’s couch instead of going back to his hotel. It’s a nice couch, don’t get Dylan wrong, but it’s not something you casually decide to sleep on.

Dylan almost offers to share the bed, but he figures that would be weird.

When it’s time for the game, Ryan lets himself get ushered into the backseat with the least amount of resistance ever. Dylan feels hyper-aware of Ryan and Lawson being so close, like two poles of his life getting pushed together, but it’s fine. Ryan keeps it civil, too, only hitting on Jakob a little bit. Even that seemed more directed at getting a rise out of Dylan. Which it does, but it's almost nice, reverting back to their backseat battles. 

Once they get to the arena, Ryan practically gets escorted to the right side, and they all dial it in. By game time, when he inevitably gets asked, Dylan means it when he says it’s just another game.

The arena’s quiet, but both teams used to that. They're used to raising the stakes on the ice, but Dylan doesn’t notice one source until Jamie elbows him during a stoppage early in the second and says, “Is it ever quiet at your house?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure the McGinn residence is fucking serene,” Dylan chirps back automatically, eyes snapping onto Ryan. He’s crowding up against Lawson, mouth going. Just the size differential is funny, until Dylan looks at Lawson’s face. Whatever Ryan’s saying is getting to him; which isn’t shocking in and of itself, but Lawson’s lack of response? Unheard of.

When Lawson comes back to the bench, he sits at the opposite end, away from Dylan. It keeps happening, too, each time Ryan and Lawson get paired against each other. Between all their shifts and jostling, Dylan can’t corner Lawson until the period is over and they’re walking down the tunnel. Dylan presses close and asks, “Hey, what’s Ryan saying that’s got you so pissed off?”

Lawson grunts. “Dumb shit.”

“I mean, yeah, he’s a fucking idiot,” Dyan scoffs. He gives Lawson a few seconds to clarify, which he doesn’t take, so Dylan continues, “Well, please don’t keep yourself from laying him out for me. And don’t get caught up in his size, either, I promise he can take it. He’s small but sturdy.”

“Thanks, Dylan,” Lawson says, in a way that implies that Dylan hasn’t helped at all.

At the start of the third, the score is still 0-0, and the coaches on either side are poking and prodding at their lines. Dylan ends up across from Ryan a few shifts in, and when a handful of seconds later Smitty is smothering the puck, Dylan takes the time to give Ryan a pointed shove and say, “Hey. Stop being a dick to my roommate.”

Ryan thwacks him on the shins with his stick and says, “Aw, I’m sowwy, am I not allowed to be mean to your fwiends?”

Dylan knocks him back again, this time with the full intention of putting him on his ass, except Ryan grabs onto the neck of Dylan’s jersey—  

The refs step in and break them apart before they can do anything that would upset their mother. They don’t even bother with a warning. Two alpha brothers, what can you expect?

When Dylan gets back to the bench, he announces, “I will buy whoever decks my brother the biggest steak in the greater Phoenix area.” When he glances at Lawson, the set of his jaw has only gotten more severe.

Ryan doesn’t get decked, but he doesn’t get a point, either. Neither does Dylan. The sole point of the outing goes to Ollie, scoring with two minutes left on a slapshot practically from the blue line. It’s a satisfying end to an otherwise annoying outing.

There’s a text waiting for Dylan after he’s showered and interviewed and dressed. The Isles are leaving that night, grinding through the west coast for the rest of the week. Dylan goes to meet Ryan at the halfway point between their locker rooms.

“What were you saying to Lawson?” Dylan asks immediately.

Ryan huffs. “Okay, seriously, when we’re playing against each other, you can’t expect me to treat your friends—”

“I totally can, if it’s gonna fuck shit up for me outside the rink. I can’t have the guy I have to live and play with for however long hating _me_ because my shitstain brother is an asshole. Like, you don’t see me going up to Tavares and telling him _you_ have been in love with him since your knot popped,” Dylan says, and he knows he’s hit a nerve by the wild look that immediately appears in Ryan’s eyes, the way his face turns half a shade pinker.

“Okay, that would be _completely_ different.”

“No, it isn’t! I mean, even if it were, how am I supposed to know when you _won’t fucking tell me what you said—”_

“It wasn’t even that bad! Just, you know, you hear rumors about a guy, might as well test them out…” Ryan trails off, expecting Dylan to fill in the blanks. He does. It leaves him cold and tingling. The whole fucking game, and no one said anything.

“Jesus. Okay. For a second I thought I was exaggerating with him hating me earlier.”

“So, what, is it true?” Ryan asks.

“Why the fuck would I tell you if it was?” Dylan snaps, heart beating too hard for him to make it sound less personal. He doesn’t look away by sheer force of will, until Ryan’s eyes cut behind him.

“Hey, Dyl, we’re about to roll out—” Lawson cuts off when he looks up and sees Ryan, too. He keeps his face carefully blank but Dylan still catches another whiff of burnt metal.

Ryan is the first to regain his composure and say, “Hey, Crouse, we’re cool, right? Just part of the game, you know, didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Sure,” Lawson responds flatly. “What happens on the ice stays on the ice.”

They have absolutely passed the amount of time Lawson and Ryan are allowed to be in the same space together. Dylan hisses at Ryan, “That wasn’t a real apology and now _I_ hate you. I am _excited_ to not see you for the rest of the season.”

Ryan pulls him into a hug with a hand on his neck, and Dylan doesn’t fight it. As furious as he is, knowing this bubble of _home_ and _family_ is going to be popped in a matter of minutes makes him clingy. They stand there breathing each other in for a long few seconds, before Ryan says, “Love you, kid.”

Dylan doesn’t jolt, but it’s a close thing. He responds through the shock mostly by muscle memory, “Love you, too.” It’s not a lie, but they usually don’t come right out and say it. Maybe Ryan is trying to max out their quota of brotherly love now to get out of their usual phone calls for a bit. Before Dylan can think about it too hard, Ryan disappears down the hallway, to get on a bus and then a plane and disappear into the season for the next however many months.

Then Dylan turns around, and Lawson’s still standing there waiting. There’s an awkward pause before Dylan says, “You really could have punched him.

Lawson snorts. “What, and let people know it bothers me that much?”

Guilt settles solidly in Dylan’s stomach, right up against the sadness of watching Ryan go. “I didn’t tell him anything, I promise,” Dylan says.

That gets him a set of rolled eyes. “Oh, I definitely didn’t think that was the case, don’t worry.”

Dylan wants to reach out and touch Lawson, sooth away all the obvious tension, but something keeps him back. Instead, he trails a step behind Lawson back to the locker room, then into the car. It’s a tense ride back. Even Jakob is feeling it; he’s paying for his minutes, sophomore slump worsened by the league not going soft on the fresh-faced omega anymore.

They all go up to the apartment under the pretense of changing before going out to celebrate, but Dylan doubts it’ll happen. Jakob disappears into his room with a cold compress, and, once they’re in his room, Lawson starts changing into sweats. They’re old, well-worn. It’s a good look, but not one he’d go for if he had any plans of leaving again. Dylan watches, as always. Lawson still looks _tired_ , and Dylan, still angry and lonely and restless, doesn’t know what he can do to fix this.

When he finally collapses onto the bed next to Dylan, an idea forms and tumbles right out of his mouth, not waiting long enough to be thought about. “Do you want me to go down on you?”

It’s an apology, a distraction, something Dylan has been wanting to try. He honestly isn’t sure why they haven’t done it already, after they barreled straight past it with pre-rut fucks. Or maybe the reason was that Lawson isn’t into head, because he just stares at Dylan, long enough that Dylan is about ready to take it back and offer a massage or something instead, before saying, “Yeah, Dylan, suck my dick.”

The way he says it, deep and goading, is enough to get Dylan warm. He moves stiffly—still in his suit, honestly, he should just bring some normal clothes over already—to lie between Lawson’s thighs. Lawson doesn’t move a muscle, apparently content to sit back and watch right now, so it’s up to Dylan to pull his pants down over his cock. Even soft, Lawson’s bigger than most of the omegas Dylan’s been with. It’s intimidating, but Dylan only stares for a second before leaning in to mouth at the base.

The scent there is so intense it knocks Dylan stupid, pushing every other thought out of his head. Luckily, it’s not too much work getting Lawson hard, pressing teasing kisses up to the head, sucking on it. This isn’t much of a selfless apology; Dylan’s so eager for it his jaw practically aches with anticipation.

An issue arises when Dylan actually tries working Lawson into his mouth. He’s long, thick even for an alpha, let alone the omegas Dylan's been with. Dylan’s frame of reference is completely blown. The stretch of his lips, his jaw feels completely new. It’s not a completely unwelcome sensation, but he’s not exactly sure how to work with it, either. Dylan glances up again, but Lawson’s still looking on impassively, so he focuses inward. He wraps a hand around the base, trying to give himself a more manageable goal as he presses forward.

He gags, almost immediately. He pulls off, coughs unattractively for a few seconds, before returning to the problem at hand, determined.

By the third time, his eyes are well on their way past watery, and Lawson’s reaching down, knocking his hand away and saying, “It’s okay, let me.” After grabbing his own cock, Lawson’s other hand goes to the back of Dylan’s head, twisting in his hair. Lawson says, “Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out.”

Dylan does as he’s told. It feels like a demotion, to go from _having it_ to only being allowed the slow, even slide of Lawson’s fat head over the tip of his tongue. His hair gets pulled back every time he tries to help along, so there’s really nothing he can do but take it, wait as Lawson slowly inches deeper into his mouth. Lawson can’t be getting that far, even once he starts thrusting, but to Dylan it still feels enormous, like he’s completely boxed in, by Lawson’s thighs and his hand and his cock and his scent. It’s _delicious._

Eventually, Lawson just holds Dylan’s head in place, jerking himself off into Dylan’s mouth, his fingers catching on Dylan’s lips. Dylan watches his face the whole time, entranced, as his face gets and the tension returns to his eyes, his gritted teeth. It’s for good this time, Dylan thinks as Lawson’s taste gets deeper on his tongue, until he’s coming with a grunt, fingernails digging in. Dylan has to work to swallow it all, but it’s worth it, hot like Lawson’s thumb when it traces over the mess he’s made of Dylan’s mouth.

“Can I kiss you?” Dylan blurts out, because he really wants to, even though he knows not everyone is down for having their own come tossed back at them.

But Lawson just says, “Jesus, Dyl,” like it was a stupid question, so Dylan crawls up into his lap properly, straddling him, and presses his mouth against Lawson’s, dick breath and all. He thrusts his dick thoughtlessly against Lawson’s stomach, knowing that these pants are already doomed. Lawson seems more concerned with their fate, because he’s fumbling with their button, yanking them down until he can get a hand on Dylan’s dick.

Dylan comes almost immediately. He’d been ready to shoot off since he first got Lawson’s dick his mouth, honestly. He slumps heavily against Lawson, content and basking in the golden post-sex aura. Lawson, of course, nudges him off before he’s ready. “I should change again,” he says. In his mislead attempt to save Dylan’s pants, his shirt had gotten caught in the crossfire.

“I think you look good,” Dylan offers. Lawson scoffs and rolls off the bed. The stupid alpha thought _I would jizz on every article of clothing you own_ drifts into Dylan’s head, and he lets it linger as the shirt gets tossed into Lawson’s usual pile of dirty clothes. Mingling.

Dylan watches Lawson for awhile as pokes around, ostensibly getting ready for bed. He doesn’t acknowledge Dylan, for long enough that a tendril of insecurity creeps up and forces Dylan to ask, “Do you want me to stay?”

Lawson shrugs.

“I’m staying if you don’t kick me out,” Dylan threatens.

He gets another shrug, and a despaired, “I don’t care.” So Dylan kicks off his suit, leaves it crumpled on Lawson’s floor, then brushes his teeth with Lawson’s toothbrush since he _still_ doesn’t have one here, before making himself comfortable under Lawson’s sheets.

They don’t touch, and Dylan goes back to worrying about that edge the game brought on.

The next morning, things are back to normal. Dylan wakes up hesitant, but when Lawson is back to acting normal, Dylan follows. It’s back the grind, games and practices and hanging with the boys. Things are fine, Dylan thinks.

 

☀☀☀

 

It takes Dylan a week before he realizes they haven’t been alone together. They can’t avoid each other anymore, obviously, and he’s still been at the apartment nearly every day, but it hasn’t been just _him and Lawson_ since the blowjob. Usually hotel rooms force them back together when they hit a dry spell at home, but this is the longest they’ve spent in Arizona since their thing started.

Dylan’s starting to understand why so many of the guys share apartments for so long. His place is his place, sure, but it's starting to feel sterile. Sometimes catching a whiff of something else—the fabric softener he stole from Domi’s mansion, a sweatshirt he stole from Lawson, the last hint of Ryan on his couch—is the highlight of the room. It makes sense, honestly. Isn’t that the whole point of dynamics shit, to make people want to stick together? Even if Dylan is going against what nature intended at the moment.

Or maybe not. A black hole hasn’t opened up on him yet.

Point being, justifying inviting himself over doesn’t take a lot out of Dylan. It’s not for the first time, and his ulterior motives aren’t even really out of left field, at this point.

The sun starts to set and the temperature dips with it, so Dylan doesn’t think twice about clothes, just shoves his feet into some sandals and slams the door behind him.  He cuts a familiar path through the parking lot to the apartment. Their front door is unlocked, and so is the door to Lawson’s bedroom, so he doesn’t knock before entering either. Dylan pauses for a moment, unnoticed, to take in Lawson’s dark wash jeans, the striped polo that really emphasizes how wide he is, before Dylan says, “You look nice. Going out somewhere?”

It makes Lawson jump, which makes Dylan laugh. Lawson shoots him a dirty look, straightens out and he says, “Uh, hello to you, too.” He runs his hands down his front, then looks away again, mutters, “I’m getting dinner with someone.”

“Really? With who?” Dylan asks. Mostly he’s wondering if he’d missed something in the various group texts. He could eat, if it was someone they both knew. Sex and being well fed go great together.

“Ana,” Lawson responds, which throws a wrench in those plans.

“Who the hell is Ana?” Dylan asks. Even as he asks, the name shakes free a memory from a few weeks ago, some annoying alpha hanger-on at a party that they couldn’t shake off, aided by the fact Lawson kept fucking talking to her—

Something in Dylan’s chest jolts, paranoia, he hopes, and makes him asks, “Are you going on a date?”

Lawson just gets this undecipherable _look_ , and says, “Yes, Dylan, I am going on a date.”

And Dylan doesn’t know how to respond to that, other than, “Oh,” and, “Untuck your shirt, you look like an asshole,” before turning back into the hallway and closing the door behind him. He stands there for a minute, in his freshly napped-in cotton shorts, curling his socked toes against the spikes of his slides, fingertips tingling, before jerking forward through Jakob’s door.

“Do you want to go out tonight?” Dylan blurts out, before he takes in the scene. Jakob’s sitting on his bed, Mac resting in his lap, headphones in, clearly mid-sentence. Probably Facetiming with his family. Or Logan. Jakob reaches up to take out an earbud but Dylan’s already saying, “Nah, nevermind.”

“No, wait, what? When did you get here?” Jakob asks.

“A minute ago. I was gonna ask if you guys wanted to hang with me and some of the ASU guys later, but it’s chill, really, go back to… whoever.” It becomes less of a lie as it leaves Dylan’s mouth. In fact, it’s probably his best idea of the night, the way things are going. Mind made up, Dylan ignores the rest of Jakob’s concerned noises and hightails it out of the apartment. He opens Snapchat once he’s outside, flipping through stories and sending a message to the first person who looks a little blurry. An enthusiastic invite follows shortly after, with an address to the complex next door.

He’s not sure whose apartment it is, but Taylor answers the door, throwing an arm over his shoulders. “Glad you could join us on this fine Tuesday evening,” she says, breath already sweet. Behind her is the usual crew, eliminating the last of Dylan’s reservations.

“I’m going to drink everything in sight,” Dylan promises her.

She rolls her eyes, mostly jokingly, and says, “Fine, but you’re restocking.”

Keeping to his word, Dylan knocks back several mixed drinks that mostly consist of shitty rum trying to cancel out shitty vodka, introduces himself to the few new faces (the apartment belongs to Taylor’s new omega and his roommates, apparently), drinks some more, and resolutely doesn’t think about Lawson and his stupid polo or Jakob and his stupid willingness to make long distance work. The crowd makes it easy. University is a shitshow, as far as Dylan can tell, and there seems to be an endless supply of gossip and updates and administration bullshit for Dylan to distract himself with.

Dylan stays long enough for the party to crest and swell, people falling quiet and prone. He’s leaning up against… Jordan? Jay? Jay’s arm, who couldn’t care less, because who _would,_ when they have a pretty omega on their other side. Who would expect _Dylan_ to mean anything to another alpha? Honestly, it’d be weirder if Jay did make a big deal out it.

Not that Dylan wants to do anything, but Jay’s hot, objectively, and Dylan’s so lonely he can feel it in his throat.

He stumbles up and away, out onto the patio. Getting his phone out of his pocket proves difficult, the phone feeling overly slick and small in his fingers. Muscle memory makes it easy to dial.

The call goes through to voicemail, playing a recording that’s been painfully formal since GMs started calling. There’s a beep, and Dylan starts, “Hey, my dude, my buddy, my pal. I would ask how you’re doing but, like, I know for a fact you’re having a better year than me, _again,_ so fuck that!” The light of a passing car catches his eyes for a long second. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that. I really want us to be friends, and friends don’t talk to friends like that. And I have a question that you are uniquely qualified to answer, for some friendly insight. Okay, now, Mitch, be honest with me—is there something about me that makes me undateable? Like, is there something in particular that screams ‘Oh, don’t bother with this guy, he’s not worth it!’ that I don’t know about? Because, man, let me tell you—”

His voice cracks, giving Taylor enough time to pop in out of nowhere and ask, “Who are you talking to?”

Dylan pulls the receiver away a little and responds, “My ex who cheated on me.”

“Oh-kay, then, maybe not.” Dylan lets her wrestle his phone out of his hand, watches as she kills the line with a press to the red button. “You alright, dude?”

“I think I’m done for the night,” Dylan admits.

“Probably for the best,” she agrees. She follows him as he says his goodbyes, insists on walking him back even though their buildings aren’t that far apart. She’s a good alpha like that.

“You’re such a good alpha,” Dylan tells her. “Jesse is so lucky to have you.”

“I hope he thinks so, too. Can you try walking in a straight line, please?” she responds kindly. Dylan does try, but his feet are catching on the ground weird, making him stumble a little. He tries not to lean too hard on her, not wanting to drag her down with him.

“Are you drunk?” he asks. “I’m gonna feel bad if I’m the only one drunk.”

“I’m fine,” she says, “And you’re definitely not the worst off. Did you see Gary puking in the bathroom?”

 _“No._ Jesus, that guy really needs to learn his own limits.” They pass into an air conditioned lobby and stop, too soon to be Dylan’s building. It’s refreshing, but Dylan reminds her, “This isn’t my building.”

“I know, Jakob wanted me to stop by,” she says, coaxing.

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t _want_ to be in that apartment right now,” Dylan complains, because it’s the truth. He’s suddenly annoyed by the escorting, that he’s being set up to be babysat, how he can’t ignore his problems for two goddamn hours without literally being dragged back.

His voice makes Taylor pull back a little, look up at Dylan searchingly, ask, “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

Dylan almost tells her. He can feel it in his throat, floating on top of the alcohol. The elevator dings and opens in front of them. They could walk into relative privacy, and he could tell her everything that’s happened tonight _._ She probably wouldn’t care, he thinks.

Instead, he swallows it down, and says, “Nope, I’m fine, let’s go say hi to your BFF.”

The ride up is silent, and when Jakob answers his door, Dylan slides by without a word. The world is pulsating and Dylan is buzzing and needs to piss, so he does, in the bathroom.

The bathroom takes him past Lawson’s dark, closed door, but at the second pass Dylan can’t keep walking, stomach lurching him forward. His hand is on the door handle and he’s walking in, not even sure what he was planning, can’t realize it before he sees that Lawson is, in fact, in his bed. He’s shirtless, sprawled over his sheets, with the glow of his laptop shining off his shoulders. Dylan gets caught up staring, long enough to Lawson to look up, furrow his brow, and say, “Dylan?”

“... Hi,” Dylan responds.

“Did you need something? Is something wrong?” Lawson asks slowly, looking like he’s about sit up.

It jerks Dylan back into motion. He steps back, says, “Uh, nope. Bye,” and slams the door closed again.

Embarrassing. Taylor’s gone by the time Dylan gets back but Jakob’s still poking around, clearly waiting for Dylan to show up again. He takes the offered Gatorade but says, “I think I’m gonna head back to my place.”

“You don’t have to. Are you sure you’re alright?” Jakob says. It’s hard to look him in the eyes, see the genuine concern there.

“I’m fine, seriously, I don’t know what her problem was.” He edges his way back out the front door, making excuses the whole way.

Dylan is very fucking drunk, but he walks another block without dying or getting arrested. His apartment is still too empty when he gets back, but he’s grateful for his own bed again, at least.

 

☀☀☀

 

Dylan wakes up before his alarm clock, the result of a deep, alcohol-fueled slumber. He feels like shit, even though the hangover is more of a warning than a punishment.

When he’s done thinking through last night for the hundredth time, he tries to drown himself in the shower, then does his best to chase away the last of his nausea before heading into practice. His phone buzzes at one point: **Still want a ride?**

Like he hasn’t every day since preseason. _Don’t know how else I’m supposed to get there,_ he replies.

The car rolls up at its usual time. No one says anything. The tension is back, maybe even worse than before. Dylan wonders once again how much Jakob knows, if Lawson talks to him about Dylan. What Lawson would say, if he did.

Things don’t get much better in practice, although now Dylan’s pretty sure it’s just him. He tries to push past it, the brain fog, the nonzero chance that everyone can sniff out last night on him. No one’s impressed, but they don’t says much, either, so Dylan’s hoping he mostly pulls it off. That, or they’re giving the pathetic-smelling alpha a wide berth. He’s probably lucky they don’t have a game tonight.

On the way back, Jakob tries to make conversation. Lawson takes him up on it. Dylan sits in the back, silent, eyes his neck, his jawline, trying to find a hint of purple. There’s no lingering scent on him now, but Dylan can’t remember if there was anything last night. He wants to ask what happened, desperately needs to know, but he freezes up when Jakob invites him over. _Maybe some things are better not to know,_ he tells himself as he barricades himself in his room again.

Dylan has barely settled down for another round of sulking when his phone rings. He glances at the caller ID, groans, answers and says, “Don’t call me, you’re driving up my rates.”

“Could say the same to you, bud,” Mitch responds. “‘My ex who cheated on me,’ eh?”

“God, can we not do this again?” It was a point of contention when they were rebuilding that bridge, what they were to each other, how this affected that. Dylan didn’t see the point of rehashing it. “You’re practically ancient history, alright? Shit here has me fucked up. Just… history repeating itself, I guess.”

“Oh! You, uh, do you have someone new?” Mitch says. Dylan hates that he sounds surprised.

Maybe it’s because the lid has already been cracked, and Dylan that isn’t trying to impress Mitch anymore, that makes Dylan sigh and settle deeper into his couch. “I mean, I guess I thought I did. I’ve been hooking up with this guy for, like, a couple months, and then last night he went out with some other alpha. We never really talked about it, I guess, but… I dunno. I thought there was _something.”_

The parallels are nearly killing Dylan, but maybe that’s why he actually listens when Mitch says, “Damn. Okay. So, I’m not sure if you were looking for a real answer last night, but you have to know that I think you’re a great fucking guy. Whoever else there is, they don’t compare, I can tell you that from here. You just gotta… I dunno, talk a little, push a little. Don’t think it’s too late. Any omega would be lucky to have you.”

Mitch ends softly, but Dylan is heaving again, and this time he can’t keep himself from saying, “It’s Lawson.”

“... _what?”_   Mitch responds.

“The guy I’ve been seeing. It’s Lawson. Crouse.”

There’s a long pause, and then, “Isn’t he another…?”

“Yeah.” Dylan’s heart feels like it’s pounding in every one of his extremities, and he’s so tense it feels like his phone could shatter in his hand.

“Okay. I can see how that’d make things harder,” Mitch says eventually, stilted. “I guess my advice doesn’t change much, though. Unless there’s some alpha code I’m missing out on.”

Dylan breathes out. “Thanks, Mitch.” They don’t talk much more, hanging up after a few minutes

So, it’s out there. Mitch probably isn’t the first person he would’ve liked to tell, but it happened, and there still aren’t any black holes or hellfire.

It still doesn’t change much. If _that_ was what Lawson does for dates—dresses up nice, goes out for dinner, goes home alone at a reasonable hour—then, yeah, that’s probably not what Dylan and him are doing. But that doesn’t mean there’s _nothing,_ right? Everything keep ricocheting through Dylan’s mind, thoughts he can’t quite fit together, but fuck if there’s just one person he wants to talk it through with.

 

☀☀☀

 

Lawson doesn’t take long to come over. Too quick, almost, but maybe it’s necessary, before Dylan gets weighed down by everything.

He looks around, idly, before dropping onto Dylan’s couch. Dylan stands, because every other option seems just as bad. “So, how was last night?” Dylan asks, then feels like punching himself for. He really wasn’t aiming for the passive aggressive route.

Lawson shrugs. “Uneventful. I stayed in.”

Dylan blinks. “What?”

“It, uh, didn’t seem fair, after you stopped by. Figured we should talk or something first,” Lawson says, with a hint of discomfort.

Dylan practically collapses on the opposite side of the couch. He shouldn’t be so relieved, with everything else still up in the air and the vague threat of _first,_ but Dylan is the alpha he is, and hates sharing.

“Alright. Well, I guess I’ll say what I have to say, and you can… plan accordingly,” Dylan says, wincing. He breathes for a few seconds, trying to force air into his lungs, before saying, “I really fucking like you, Lawson. Like a stupid amount. And I want to be with you as much as possible. Like, you hear over and over again that bonds don’t make the relationship, but I didn’t really believe it until this. Us. Being with you— it feels just as real. I miss you the same. I want you the same. We fit together the same.

“But I don’t know how this is supposed to _work._ I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel alright with telling my family, my friends. Having people know. Like that shit with Ryan… he could have just been fucking with you, because he’s a dick like that, but it’s kind of fucking terrifying for me. Even ignoring everything else, I don’t know how we’re supposed to move forward from here. If you want to move forward from here. I mean, I definitely want to _try,_ but if you don’t…” Dylan trails off. He’s barely skimmed the top of what he wanted to say and he already feels drained and raw. as Lawson reaches forward. He grabs Dylan’s arm, turns it upwards, runs his thumb over his wrist.

“Okay,” Lawson says.

 _“Okay?”_ Dylan responds, disbelieving.

“Sure. I like you a lot, too. I mean, clearly we have some shit to work through, but thank you for telling me. I guess I, uh, was scared that you taking this seriously wasn’t a possibility. Knowing you actuallu want this… that’s enough for me, right now,” Lawson says, slowly. He's not looking at Dylan, but Dylan thinks he might just be nervous, too.

Dylan doesn’t know what to do with all that, so he just crashes forward, pushing all his relief and joy and warmth into this kiss, pressing close to try and get his scent all over Lawson again. They break apart eventually, because air, and Dylan gasps, “Holy shit, I guess talking like adults works sometimes,” and then, because he’s not subtle, “I’ve cleaned my bedroom since last time, you know.”

“Slick maneuvers, Strome,” Lawson responds, but it’s not a no, so Dylan jumps up and pulls Lawson down the hall, so they can rediscover a few more perks to not sharing walls with anybody.

And Dylan isn’t going to make Lawson wait months for a drawer, that’s for-fucking-sure.

**Author's Note:**

> It was... so hard to pull these two apart long enough for them to have feelings between all the fucking. [Find me and my porn stash on tumblr!](http://ratbarnaby.tumblr.com)


End file.
